


hide away

by moonmother



Category: VIXX
Genre: Boyfriends in love, M/M, Secret Relationship, lovers by moonlight, n/ravi - Freeform, navi - Freeform, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-28 07:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13266357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonmother/pseuds/moonmother
Summary: The night keeps their secrets, keeps them hidden; it is theirs.





	hide away

The city sags under the weight of the moon. It’s low in the sky tonight, large and white, seemingly to be close enough to touch the buildings –– if you stand on a roof you will surely be able to stretch out fingers and take a swipe at it. The streets are bright even without the help of the moon, but it becomes more useful the further one travels from the city’s night, into the suburban night, and then deeper into the knots of houses too poor and sad to afford a good reputation –– their night.  
  
A streetlamp buzzes overhead with the sound of a swarm of flies. It grates on his nerves, a glob of a young man covered in a mismatching array of coats and scarves and gloves, and the yellow light makes him look shapeless in the night. He shuffles down the street. It’s past midnight, and anyone with enough sense wouldn’t be walking around, not here, at this hour, but he knows these streets well and knows the people who operate on them. And he’s careful, very careful, so getting where he needs to be is a simple and clear-cut path.  
  
The house, a specific house –– the one with the broken shutters and forlorn mailbox and the eternal spring wreath on the front door –– is the one he wants. The house is one level; a tap of his fingers on a side window is another simple something about this night, about what they do. He uses his pattern –– _tap. tap tap. tap._ –– to signal his arrival, and the curtains are drawn aside to let the moonlight reveal skin and then a smile.  
  
The window slides up with a little more than a quiet squeal. “Wonsik, it’s late.”  
  
Wonsik is grinning; he felt the smile arise even before the curtains parted for him and the window allowed him conference. “Hi, beautiful.”  
  
Beautiful is Hakyeon, framed in his window and wearing nothing but a tank top and sweatpants and lots of skin and sleepy eyes. Wonsik looks up, and once again, the feeling of belonging to a pretty tale where they are other, where Hakyeon is the hidden royalty and Wonsik is the one prying for entrance, is overwhelming. Hakyeon’s curtains are sheer, ugly things, but they frame the gateway to the highness’s chambers and always look much so much more enticing from the outside, in the moments like these. In these other moments. It’s almost enough to help forget they smell like mothballs.  
  
Hakyeon has his lips quirked in a flattered smile. He reaches his hand out the window, arm bathed in moonlight and touches Wonsik’s chin, tilting his face up a little more. “You’re cold. Why are you cold?”  
  
“Why aren’t you cold?”  
  
“It’s barely winter.”  
  
“I’m _freezing_.” Wonsik worms his mouth out of the edge of his scarf. He’s never ready to ask his next question. The answer is always different. “Can I come inside?”  
  
Hakyeon’s mouth twists again. He looks over his shoulder. Wonsik knows he’s listening and calculating. “They’ve been in bed for awhile,” Hakyeon determines once he looks back to Wonsik, hand remaining on his chin. “I think it’s fine.” Hakyeon extends his hands even though Wonsik doesn’t need him to climb through the window.  
  
Wonsik breathes easier even though the events that always follow upon “yes” should make his nerve endings alive and jumping in his skin. He knows a “no” is worse and not for his sake but for Hakyeon’s.  
  
There are two conditions of a “no.”  
  
One: Someone’s awake.  
  
Two: There was a fight.  
  
Fights are special cases requiring special conditions and protocol of their own. Sometimes Hakyeon will meet him halfway down the street; sometimes he’ll be waiting at Wonsik’s place; sometimes he’ll be gone altogether with a note wedged into the windowsill to answer his whereabouts. Wonsik hates the notes. They never say where Hakyeon is and only that he’s okay. A reassuring sentence is easy to scribble out even in the most turbulent of moods.  
  
But tonight –– tonight is a yes.  
  
Wonsik curls up on Hakyeon’s frameless bed without removing any outerwear. Hakyeon shuts the window, quieter on the way to it’s return position, and draws the curtains. He locks his bedroom door. Wonsik’s shivering on the bed, laying atop all the blankets and watches him do all this in his routine and careful fashion.  
  
Hakyeon’s bedroom is an ambiguous pastel shade, a remnant of his childhood, but that’s the only thing about him that hints at a time other than the present. He has string lights draped over his dresser, and they’re lit now, offering soft, dim light over Hakyeon as he moves away from the door. The walls are mostly bare, but next to the set of windows, there’s a section of wall that Hakyeon’s taped up letters that are indeed Wonsik’s. They join a smattering of magazine cutouts of clothes. Hakyeon only tapes up the important things.  
  
He creeps across the floor to crawl onto the bed.  
  
His hands press down on the mattress on either side of Wonsik’s head, and his hips are aligned with Wonsik’s, and he’s wearing the face that Wonsik adores. Mischievous and knowing with a hint of daring. They risk a lot on nights like these, but Hakyeon sneaking out racks up a higher risk.  
  
He presses a kiss to the tip of Wonsik’s cold nose. “You’re freezing,” he comments, softly.  
  
Wonsik hasn’t stopped grinning and he firms his lips together only to have them broken apart by this same grin. “Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Help me out?”  
  
Wonsik’s scarf and gloves were gifted to him from Hakyeon and they land by the window with the coat. Now he’s down to just his shirt and pants, and Hakyeon sneaks his hands under them. He has warm hands. Wandering hands. Even when he’s not searching, they travel in languid touches. And Hakyeon’s mouth is a fire-pit. Scorching on Wonsik’s numbed skin.  
  
“You smell like,” Hakyeon kisses into Wonsik’s cheekbone, “asphalt and burned rubber.”  
  
“What did you expect?” Wonsik pushes his head up to peck Hakyeon’s chin. He’s so close.  
  
“Not sure. But I was hoping you wouldn’t go without me.”  
  
“Money’s money.”  
  
“Money can wait.”  
  
Wonsik takes a finger and touches the wall. The plaster’s cold, but not as cold as him, and he knows that beyond this room he’s a no one. A trespassing no one. He shivers. “You,” Wonsik says, “can’t wait.”  
  
You can’t stay here, is what he means. You need out.  
  
Hakyeon’s tone is a little distant when he replies, “Yes I can. I have been.” He kisses Wonsik on the mouth. “And I still will.” He nuzzles his cheek against the side of Wonsik’s face, and his skin is soft, so soft. “But you went without me. Down there.”  
  
“You go a lot of places without me.”  
  
Hakyeon’s mouth has moved and now gives love to the chilled skin of Wonsik’s tummy. His words rumble. “It’s the people there that I don’t trust. Safety in numbers. Right?”  
  
“R– right.” Wonsik wills his words to not trip up, to keep a steady voice as he says, “I knew you’d be tired after you got off work. I didn’t want to drag you down there.” The violent rip of engines and the squeal of tires on road is how Wonsik makes his cash on the side, Hakyeon as his betting accomplice. But tonight Hakyeon was left home. And Hakyeon has strong opinions about it.  
  
“How…sweet.” Hakyeon accentuates the pause with a nip of teeth at Wonsik’s rib. The tension in him is wound tight in his muscles; Wonsik can feel it as his hands touch over these parts of the older. Hakyeon, now knowing where he was this evening, fears for what could have been, what could have happened. How silly to fear in retrospect.  
  
“Hakyeon,” Wonsik gently chastises. “I’m fine.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“I’ll go without you again. For sure.”  
  
“I know that, too.” Hakyeon kisses up the ribs now, and his touch tickles. “It’s different, though, to tell myself what will happen, and to keep myself from feeling a certain way.” Hakyeon pauses. “Try not to go without me.”  
  
It’s a sentimental admission. Wonsik, who was fully intending to let the touches continue in their teasing manner, feels like there’s a mismatch. He no longer wants Hakyeon’s hands in his pants tonight –– they were drifting there lower and lower –– and pulls Hakyeon up by his shoulders. They’re face-to-face in a tangle of arms. “Can we,” Wonsik asks, voice small, “just– just lay here together?”  
  
Hakyeon seems surprised by the sudden change but adjusts quickly with his legs intertwining with Wonsik’s. The tension Wonsik feels in him is now expended in cuddling rather than what would have been something not as innocent. “Of course.”  
  
Hakyeon settles his hands on him, pulling Wonsik’s t-shirt back down over his stomach, and whispers into his ear, “So how are you going to make it up to me that you went by yourself?”  
  
“Leave and not come back.”  
  
“Good. I can throw away your sappy letters then.” Hakyeon points a lazy finger at his dream wall, at the letters. Wonsik’s always thought of Hakyeon as brave for hanging them rather than finding it stupid. His family isn’t supposed to know, but he’s hung them in a way that makes them look like a part of his clothes clippings collage –– this will deem them unimportant to any family member who would happen to enter. Hakyeon’s family doesn’t care much for his dream wall. Hanging the letters is Hakyeon’s little permission of wanting to be himself.  
  
“Good,” Wonsik agrees. “They’re embarrassing.”  
  
“I like reading them.”  
  
Wonsik expresses his distaste in a derisive snort.  
  
“It’s cute; they’re cute.” Hakyeon kisses Wonsik’s cheek. “Especially you –– you’re adorable.”  
  
“Oh, shut up.”  
  
Hakyeon presses himself closer. “Maybe I should start writing you letters then.”  
  
Wonsik gasps as Hakyeon’s hand squeezes his side in a ticklish manner. He tries to not laugh. “So you’re going to write me love notes even though I went to the track alone?”  
  
“Never mind, then.”  
  
Wonsik rolls them so he’s lying on top of Hakyeon, and he kisses the tip of his nose before settling so Wonsik’s head rests against Hakyeon’s chest. Despite the danger of discovery, he feels safe like this. Hakyeon’s hands card through Wonsik’s dirty hair, undoing tangles, and it has a lulling effect, Wonsik feeling more and more tired the longer he lies still. He holds Hakyeon tight, and he’s on the verge sleep’s precipice when he hears Hakyeon’s soft voice tell him that he loves him.  
  
He smiles –– he never really stops smiling when he’s with Hakyeon –– and he hopes that he’s not already dreaming when he returns, “I love you, too.”  
  
Time should be frozen like this. So the moon will hang forever close in the sky, a maintainer of the night, and it will be miles and miles of measured time until the next day. Wonsik will not have to sneak out, and he can lie in Hakyeon’s arms without worry. Their legs can be wrapped together like this all together, and their hearts will beat close like this together, and it’s just the two of them together.  
  
The night romanticizes them as clandestine lovers, keeping their secret sealed with the moon.  
  
But the moon can’t crush the city forever, and it’s early when Hakyeon rouses Wonsik from sleep. Soon the sun will be up. Time for reality; time for work. Time for money; time to make it.  
  
“Hurry,” Hakyeon says, ushering Wonsik out the window, offering a hand even though Wonsik doesn’t need it. “I’ll see you later today.”  
  
Wonsik’s all put back together, and he stands outside the house as Hakyeon flaps an anxious hand at him, the window resuming like it had never admitted a secret, the curtains hiding away Wonsik’s love. The sun is coming up soon and with that comes the neighborhood, Hakyeon’s house a part of that. Standing out here much longer will get him caught.  
  
The fairytale reaches an interlude. They are not other; they are not significant. They are Hakyeon and Wonsik –– two penniless boys in love; they are not special.  
  
But, to each other, to who matters most, they are.  
  
Wonsik hunches his shoulders and speed-walks home. He’s halfway there when he shoves his gloved fingers into his coat pockets, and he discovers something, small and thin and waiting for him. Nestled inside, folded neatly, is a letter.

**Author's Note:**

> \- navi's that good shit  
> \- thanks for reading!!


End file.
